


My Monster, My Love

by Archaeopteryxthescribe



Series: Púca!Izaya [1]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Character Analysis, Faery!Izaya, Fluff and Smut, I may make one in Shizuo's POV, Love, M/M, Might get art from my friend, My First Smut, Púca!Izaya, obscure literature, or attempt at it, relationship analysis, very vague and a bit ominous sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:53:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5194631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archaeopteryxthescribe/pseuds/Archaeopteryxthescribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Izaya is a reflective faery, Shizuo is a bottom, and the world needs a bit of love between these two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Monster, My Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first smut fic, so criticism and thoughts appreciated! Thanks!
> 
> I do not own these little shits, or there would be a lot less pining in Durarara!!

He tasted like nothingness. Rough and perfect, in that twisted way that made the other man’s heart beat wildly in his chest. With slashes of warmth colliding with the stripes of tingling cool across his chest. His hands weaving in that particular way that sent the blonde’s voice into static moans.

He was the true monster, the way he could spin his web of censorable words. The way he could undo the infamous beast of Ikebukuro with a simple swipe of his long, gentle, and perfect fingernail. The way he could send the loose strands of Shizuo’s hair to be thrown back in ecstasy at the harsh scratch that trailed from behind his ear to his hip bone.

He was, in all truthfulness he never had, a god. A god of manipulation. Of cruelty and abuse, though never would he show his pure monster that. Of cold laughter and dancing shadows. He was a god of the city, ripe with dark alleys and happenings behind dumpsters and old nightclubs. He, in all his glory, was a god of misunderstandings and evil doers. Of silver-tongued liars and fresh criminals. Yet, as he hunched his thin frame over the blonde man, he was beautiful.

He was a god of mischief, playfulness, and fortune. A god who was not a god at all, but more human than they so wished to be. A god who felt, oh how he felt, in streams of everything at once or not at all.

He was, in fact, not a god at all, but a faery. A faery of the same origin as one Celty Sturluson, though his past was clear in his eyes. It seems the Celtics were the ones with their heads truly in the clouds. The only other fae he had thus far encountered were of Irish descent. He was a púca, a trickster of sorts, but saying as much was no good for his reputation.

And he loved humans.

Yes, he loved them.

Loved them.

Loved the way they were broken.

The way they were wrong.

Every sinful thing they did.

He hated them.

Because they took away his monster. Tainted him to be a beast, though Izaya would never love anyone who was truly human.

But oh, how he loved his monster.

He loved his nimble legs, his oakwood eyes, and his soft and pliable hair. He loved his monster, his beast, his soul, because what else could love?

He could not love a woman of stature, beautiful in all but spirit. Nor could he love a working man, exhaustion ridden and heaven bound. He could not love a human, unique and plastered with labels, some given to them and others found, lying about. He could not love someone who cried at every sunset, nor one who bowed and bent in the breeze.

He could love his monster.

His monster who shivered at every touch and every cold night. Whose spirit raged like the sun itself, immersed in every emotion in a way Izaya’s never could. Whose irritability sent humans running. Who had enough energy to stay awake every night he was nightmare plagued, and who never believed in an afterlife in the first place. Yes, Izaya loved the man who threw all labels at the sun he so resembled and flipped off the world from his high throne ( that he never built and would strongly insist did not exist). He who was a sunset himself, and whose very breath was the breeze.

Yes, Izaya agreed (with himself), he could love his monster.

Saying so, however, was a whole other matter.

He tried to say so as he ran his sensational fingernails across the monster’s shoulder blades, but his own moan cut him off.

He tried to say so as he slowly moved, each excruciating thrust killing his words in his throat.

He tried to say so as he licked his way up the other man’s neck, but his mouth was full and the last thing he wanted was to be impolite about it.

He tried to say so as he whispered in the delicious shell of a pale ear, but his breath sent a low growl through his monster.

Finally, he decided to wait. Waiting was something Izaya Orihara did not do well. He immediately regretted his decision, and their session was sent into a vicious change of scenery.

They moved faster, stronger and languidly together. Each rocking movement letting loose noises from the depths of their being.

When sweet ecstasy set free their release together, it seemed as if it had been caged behind bars, with all the energy it was donating. And grateful for the donation they were, as the pair rocked shakily with their breathing, exhaling the tension built by their release.

Then he spoke it. Three simple words.

“I love you.”

Shizuo stared. Izaya stared back.

He smiled gently, for being such a monster, thought the faery.

Their kiss was gentle, unlike any other occasion they had been blessed with each other’s presences.

Sure, some sex that they had shared had been gentle enough, though none had ever been loving.

For that was what it was.

Loving.

They were in love.

“I love you too, you dense flea.”


End file.
